Sinking Higher
by Vialana
Summary: In the end, all Bruce could do was stand by and watch as his youngest son died slowly and painfully -- one funeral proceeding the next.


**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters from DC Comics featured herein.**

_Yet another fic inspired by recent events (even if I hate them so much, they do provide such good mind-fodder). I have this theory about DC which basically asks the question, "How much do they hate Tim Drake?" I don't exactly answer that question here, but boy did I feel like crying so many times while writing this._

_Warnings: angst, character death_

**Sinking Higher**

Bruce rushed into the Cave as he heard the crash of glass against the stone floor. Ready for any sort of intruder, he stopped, startled, at the sight before him.

Tim stood in front of the memorial case, staring at his hand which was dripping blood from a huge gash onto …

"She deserves better."

Tim wasn't even looking his way, just staring down at the blood-drenched uniforms before him.

"She deserves better than a dusty glass case that nobody looks at or talks to or even acknowledges. She was so much better than this … morbid peepshow. She'd hate it here. It's dank and dark and she can't even make a joke about it. She'd just be pounding on the case screaming without sound just to hear something in all this … silence."

Bruce didn't move as Tim knelt down and gently touched the purple — eggplant! — cape that had gotten tangled with the green tights.

"You should get Alfred to redecorate or something. Maybe play a bit of music over the speakers. I don't know how I never went insane down here."

Tim still wasn't looking at him but Bruce answered anyway.

"I'll take it into consideration."

"That's good." Tim rose up, having gathered all the loose items of uniforms together in his arms, and finally looked at Bruce. "I don't think you'll need these any more."

"No, probably not."

"Don't worry, I'll take care of it all."

Bruce watched Tim leave the cave, the Spoiler costume and the modified Robin uniform spilling from his grip.

"I'm sure you will."

* * *

Bruce knew Detective Bullock was standing outside the door, just looking in — fascinated despite the seriousness. It was rare enough to see either one of Gotham's urban legends in enough light to make out their exact uniforms, but to capture them both in such an emotionally vulnerable position … well that was completely unheard of. He knew about the bets around the precincts regarding how human the members of the 'Bat-Family' really were. In any other situation Bruce may have been amused.

"Might wanna stash this before I let the rest of the brood up here." Bullock gestured to the balled up Robin uniform in his hand. He must have collected the rest of the pieces as he climbed the stairs. "Get your story straight too before _he_ becomes bigger news than he already is."

Bruce looked down at the corpse once more and tried not to think what this would do to the already fragile child shaking in his arms.

"I was never here," Bruce finally said, watching Bullock fumble a moment with his notebook. "But _Tim_ had been in bed when the disturbance occurred."

Bullock looked at him sharply at that. "You gonna leave him here in that state? If you say he's an on-the-books witness, then he ain't goin' anywhere for the rest of the night without questioning."

"His prints are on the murder weapon."

Bullock looked stunned, before he got the insinuation. "Aw, shit. Homicide'll be all over him. You sure? Not that I'm advocating the way you lot mess with scenes, but …" he gestured helplessly to the still-shaking silent teenager. "I ain't never been good with kids, and that's … he's … damnit! Shit! This crap is tied up with the Dibny and Palmer cases ain't it?"

"Unfortunately so."

"Hell. They were public … if they knew about the _kid_ … you'd better keep a real close eye on the rest of your family, spooky. I _don't_ wanna know who you really are."

"You needn't be concerned. I don't have a family."

Bullock snorted as he left the room and the two to straighten themselves out a bit. Bruce barely caught the whisper Bullock probably hadn't intended him to hear.

"Like hell you don't."

Bruce looked down at Tim, who had finally stopped shaking and was slumped against him so completely that Bruce wouldn't be able to move without the boy falling over. He was startled to realise his fingers had been running through Tim's hair and stopped the motion.

Tim looked up at him at the change in movement through red eyes.

"I'll still be here," Bruce assured him.

Tim just nodded and closed his eyes.

* * *

Tim hadn't spoken for days, just sitting at the sterile bedside, practically unmoving, until he knew for sure that the bed's occupant was awake and well. Then he locked himself in his bedroom again, refusing to speak or even eat for a time until Dick had been well enough to leave the hospital and attempt kicking his door down.

Tim had actually listened when Dick warned that such an action would reopen his injuries and had unlocked the door more out of guilt than any real desire to come out and interact with the world again.

Bruce watched it all happen with increasing despair. He couldn't help feeling a sense of failure like nothing he had ever encountered before. Perhaps not even with Jason's death. He didn't know what to do with Tim, how to help him, how to make him interact, how to make him open up, maybe even not how to be there for him.

Dick wasn't helping things either. Still getting over his near-death experience (closer than Bruce had ever wanted him to get to death, which was the point in distancing himself in the first place, because — as was being clearly seen now — he couldn't function as well with the lives and emotions of people he cared about on the line) all he was doing was sending disappointed looks in Bruce's direction.

But Bruce didn't know how to fix this — couldn't fix this. This time it had taken a toll on Tim that Bruce didn't think the boy could ever recover from.

He'd never seen …

"Hey kiddo, the memorial's tomorrow. I still think it would mean a lot if you said a few words. I'm sure …"

Dick trailed off as the words not only failed to have the desired effect on Tim, but almost reversed what little progress they had made since finishing his excursion back into his room.

Dick only shrugged helplessly, scrubbing a shaking hand over his tired eyes.

It wasn't just Dick. They were all exhausted. This last battle had taken its toll on everyone. They couldn't afford to see anyone who was left slip away from them. They didn't _want_ to see anyone else slip away from them. Bruce would be damned if any more fallen would be someone he loved.

"I was thinking about taking a cruise."

The seeming non-sequiter startled everyone. Bruce almost smiled at the effect.

"The doctor recommended Dick recover in warmer climes for a few weeks. I have to admit some of these old scars probably need a bit of sunlight too. It'll be nice; a family vacation. The three of us. I think it's long past time that we had some rest and relaxation together."

Dick was gaping but, as amusing as that was, Bruce's attention was focused on Tim's reaction.

Tim looked up at Bruce then glanced at Dick before whispering, "Okay."

Dick stared then shook himself and grinned. "Yeah, fantastic! Let's do it, definitely. I'll go find Alfred and tell him the good news." As he left, he shot Bruce a quick relieved look combined with a smile so bright Bruce almost wished there wasn't an alternate motive to this family bonding business.

Once alone, he crossed the room to place a hand on Tim's shoulder to give a quick comforting squeeze.

"You don't have to say 'good bye' if you're not ready to."

Tim just nodded.

"You'd better start packing then. We'll probably leave within the week."

Bruce left the room and the damaged boy, turning a willingly blind eye to his surety in the knowledge that Tim was _never_ going to say good bye to Kon-el.

* * *

It wasn't until they got back to the Cave and Tim had disappeared into the shower that Bruce found out what exactly was wrong with Tim on the ride home from Titans Tower.

A message was waiting for him. Not urgent, but flagged with a colour Bruce had been seeing too often in his mail these days.

Another funeral.

Bart Allen's funeral.

Bruce tugged the cowl off and unclasped his cape. Alfred, standing ready nearby, only raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

"Not tonight," Bruce said, managing to loose the growl in his voice Alfred had been commenting on for weeks. It shouldn't have taken another death for him to snap out of the Bat-mentality he'd been stuck in for a year and then some.

Alfred made swift work of collecting the uniform items before making himself scarce.

Bruce just hoped he was preparing a whole cauldron-full of tea or cocoa. Everyone would likely need some by the time this night was over.

He sat thinking, brooding, until he heard a noise behind him.

"So what do we have for tonight?"

Bruce looked over his shoulder to see Tim in his full uniform, completely composed and ready for action.

"Nothing."

"Seriously? Not even a drug-ring or a bank robbery?"

"We're not going out tonight."

"Why not?"

"Because you need time to mourn."

Tim looked away and Bruce could her him sucking in a deep breath.

Tim didn't cry. Wouldn't let himself. Not in front of Bruce. Bruce was certain Tim hadn't shed a tear in public since losing Superboy. He was holding himself too steady, too calm.

"What's the point?" he said, voice dull and emotionless. "We can't do anything about something that's already happened. You can't go back in time and save the world in retrospect. Fate isn't that kind. We just have to deal and move on."

Bruce had nodded at the end of his protégé's speech and handed him a disk.

"In that case, there's something you need to see."

Tim snatched it from Bruce's hands and glared. "When did you take this?"

"I didn't. I saw you put it away down here."

"And, what? You thought you——"

"Tim. Just watch it." Bruce got up and pushed Tim gently by the shoulders to sit in the chair. "I'll return later."

Bruce turned and left, but as he climbed up the stairs he saw the bright face fill the monitor screen and a young voice talking too fast through the speakers. He looked down at the chair he'd left Tim in and almost ran back down to the huddled, shaking figure.

But he let Tim have his privacy for now.

* * *

Another gravesite. Inscribed with only a date and initials to help preserve the anonymity of the body. A memorial had been erected elsewhere for public mourners. This grave would only be visited this once by the closest of friends.

Bruce saw familiar faces lined so permanently with sorrow it was hard to remember what they looked like without grief etching their features. There was no hint of colour, no uniforms, just respectful sobriety broken occasionally by soul-wrenching sobs.

Words were spoken in quiet voices, sentences torn apart by tears.

Bruce was silent and unmoving throughout it all.

Another hero … another _child_ was being buried toady and all Bruce could do was watch the world continue to fall apart.

Mourners proceeded with roses and Bruce was almost relieved by the thought that the experience would soon be finished.

Part of him dreaded what would come afterwards though.

"They're all dead now."

The words were spoken at Bruce's side as the final roses were thrown into the open grave. Bruce almost didn't want to look at the speaker, but love as well as duty compelled him.

Tim was dry-eyed. One of the very few who remained so throughout the service. Odd looks had been cast his way since the beginning of the ceremony, but those who knew him knew that this stone-faced calmness was a far worse indicator of turmoil than tears could ever be.

Bruce resisted reaching out with a comforting hand, knowing it would be rebuffed only moments after Tim would flinch underneath the contact.

"I'm still here," was all the comfort Bruce could offer.

"Yes, you are. Thank you."

They were silent again as they watched people start to separate as the ceremony ended. Clumps of tearful friends gathered further away, silent individuals threaded their way through the headstones between them to reach the exit and leave the stifling field of death and memory. Few stayed to watch the grave fill up completely, but Tim hadn't moved — hadn't even averted his gaze — and so Bruce stood at vigil beside him, waving away all others who would come to talk and share their stories and pain. Even friends and family. Even Dick.

"I'm done."

Bruce turned his gaze and complete attention to his youngest protégé — his son — desperate for the statement to mean something other than what it obviously did.

"Tim?"

"I'm done. I can't do this any more. I'm sorry."

Bruce swallowed, emotion he had refused to feel during the ceremony welling up with this sudden but not entirely unexpected confrontation. He didn't resist the urge to reach out to Tim this time, gripping the boy's shoulders tightly with his hands, as though he could keep Tim with him forever with such an action.

"You … you will always have my support in anything you do."

"I know."

Tim was still calm and free of tears, but there was a deadness to his voice and expression that wounded more than the sight of any child's visible pain could. Bruce's fingers tightened before he forced himself to release his grip and take a step back from Tim.

"I'll still be here."

For the first time since speaking, Tim hesitated and his voice broke as he whispered, "Promise?"

Bruce almost couldn't speak but he managed a jerky nod. "I'll always be here."

Tim nodded, taking a step back. "Okay."

Bruce wanted to reach out again, pull him into a hug, shake him and tell him to cry and scream and yell, but he did none of these. He allowed the space between them to exist and widen and he watched Tim walk away.

Bruce looked down at the new grave and knew it would not be the last Tim would ever visit and never had he regretted more not being able to keep such a promise to one he cared about.

"There's more to live for than you think, Tim. Don't you die either."


End file.
